Domestication Series
by penvision
Summary: On Hiatus: I'll be in Chicago until Sunday 29. Ron and Kim are young, married, and trying to become domesticated. No more hero work, just college, neighbors, and a new house that is feeling neglected.
1. Vanilla Scented Wedding

Summary: Ron and Kim are young, married, and trying to become domesticated. No more hero work, just college, neighbors, and a new house that is feeling neglected. What could go wrong?

AN: I swear I'm going to update this story regularly. Really. Anyway, first chapter's up. These are one-shots tied together by a common theme, enjoy.

Chapter Quote: Please believe that one single positive dream is more important than a thousand negative realities. Adeline Yen Mah

Disclaimer: I don't own Kim Possible or Oak Street, wherever that is.  
…

Ron stepped out of the overloaded car and shut the door, taking a deep breath of air. "Ahh. Suburbia, where even the air smells manufactured."

Kim slowly got out of the car and stretched. "You'll never get settled in with that attitude. We're starting a new adventure." Her thumb absentmindedly rubbed against the gold wedding band on her ring finger as she looked at their new house.

"Domestication, woo." Ron twirled a finger and grinned.

"Suburbia's nice, the all-American dream." Kim started untying the ropes holding their suitcases to the top of the car. "This seems like a nice neighborhood, too. Oak Street." Ron shrugged, pulling three bags down. Kim grabbed two suitcases and started up the driveway.

Ron stepped back from the neon and looked up and down the block. Half of the houses were identical to their ranch, if not a different color, mounds of dirt and trash were piled everywhere further out, the mailboxes, the yards, and even the family dogs were the exact same. He glanced at his new bride and wondered how she saw it. "It's so… boring, though. And no oaks."

Kim dug into her pocket for the house key. "It's away from our parents." She shoved the key into the lock and twisted the knob. "Far away."

"Oh yeah. Hey wait!" Ron sprinted up the driveway, grabbing Kim by the shoulder and pulling her back just as her right foot lifted to take the first step.

Kim was thrown off balance by the suitcases and tumbled into Ron's arms. "Ron, what are you doing?"

Ron leaned over as she looked up at him and kissed her nose, slipping the suitcases out of her hands. He swept and arm under her legs, wrapping the other around her shoulder. "Carrying you over the threshold, it's tradition."

Kim raised an eyebrow as his leg came up to kick the door open. "What?"

"Bride. Threshold. Tradition."

"You and your traditions."

"They've been good luck so far." He twisted his frame to fit through the doorway and shared a chaste kiss with his wife.

…

Ron dragged another box across the carpet, muttering curses. "Wedding gifts!"

There was a long pause. "Kitchen, that's still empty!" Followed by a muffled "sort of" from somewhere down the hall. Ron sighed and dragged the box across the linoleum, shoving it against the empty cupboards. "That everything?"

"Yep! 'Cept for everything else!" He chuckled to himself as he stood up, stretching raw back muscles. His nose twitched. "What's that smell?" He sniffed his bicep. "Whoa, not me." Sniff. "Smells like…" Sniff. "Vanilla." He glanced around the kitchen, but there were only stacks of brown boxes labeled, unsurprisingly, 'kitchen.' He shrugged and walked back out through the living room, across the yard, down the driveway, and to the moving truck.

"Hello there."

Ron turned around to find a petite housewife dressed in blouse, apron, and skirt, and her son, dressed in dirt, apparently. "Hi. I'm Ron Stoppable." He extended his hand.

"I'm Amanda, and this is my oldest son, Dusty." Ron swallowed a remark about hygiene as he shook their hands. "Welcome to Oak Street."

"Thanks." Ron scratched the back of his neck. They stood in silence for a few minutes. "…Out of curiosity, why is it called Oak Street?"

Amanda fluffed her blond curls. "What do you mean?"

Ron motioned broadly at the street. "Well, it's just that there aren't any oaks on Oak Street. Or maples on Maple Avenue, or apple trees on Apple Lane. In fact, there aren't any trees around here at all. Just mounds of dirt. Seems silly to have a street named after a tree that isn't around."

Dusty hid a snicker while his mother gaped, evidently lost for words.

"What do we want trees for? Just one more thing to run a car into, I say." A middle aged man, dressed in brown khakis with a white t-shirt covered by a plaid sweater vest, walked up to Amanda, placing his hand on her shoulder. "Trees take up too much room, anyhow. Only time you'll see a tree out here is the garbage day after Christmas. I'm Bob, by the way."

"Ron Stoppable." They shook hands. "Nice to meet you."

"Yes, well, we should let you get back to moving, don't want to upset the Mrs., eh?" Bob elbowed Ron playfully. "Here, have Dusty help you, the young man could use a hard day's work." Bob grabbed Dusty by the shoulder and shoved him forward. "Have fun!"

Ron waved as the couple left, letting out a heavy sigh. He looked at Dusty, trying to figure out what color his hair was, or where his hairline started, for that matter. "How old are you?"

"Twelve, sir."

Ron looked into the truck, scratching his head, he didn't want to make some kid work all day. "So what do you guys do for fun around here?"

"Well, roller blades, skateboards, motor scooters, and mini cars are banned, and we can't play in the street, and all of the driveways are slanted, so we just climb the dirt piles or run around in the half built houses."

"Dirt piles? I would've never guessed." Ron coughed to cover up his chuckle. "Well, here, this box has my game stations, these ones here are my videogames, and that back there is the TV. Get 'em hooked up in the living room, don't block the door, and you can play until supper."

"Sweet!"

Ron grabbed another box labeled 'kitchen' and trekked back to the house, Dusty in tow. "Maybe I'll get a chance to play you."

…

Kim stood in the middle of the kitchen, hands on hips, looking around. Ron set the box down on a pile near the door and stood beside her, following suite. "Wow, that vanilla's really strong." He wrinkled his nose.

"Yeah, I can't figure out where it's coming from, but I think it's from something in here." They looked around, "all of these boxes are just dishes and silverware, except for the… oh no."

Ron raised an eyebrow. "'Oh no,' what?" Kim bent over the box labeled wedding gifts and ripped the top off. They both covered their noses as vanilla oozed into the air. "Ah. That kind of 'oh no,' got it." He leaned over the box next to her.

"All of this stuff is ruined." She pulled out the offending bottle of perfume, which had been cracked during the move.

Ron crouched down and pulled out an embroidered pillow, sniffing it before tossing it behind him. "I'm sure it didn't soak all of the way through, and some of this stuff is salvageable." Ron eyed the soaked Hawaiian shirt before pitching it, too. "Or useless. Salvageable or useless."

Kim sat back against the cabinets and sighed, throwing a towel into the growing pile, "we're making a mess of this, aren't we?"

Ron stood up and walked over to her, sliding down the cabinets to sit next to his wife. He took her hand in both of his, running his fingers over her knuckles. "Yep. Although I'm sure after meeting Dusty you'll feel like Mr. Clean himself." He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, hugging her to him.

"Classes start in a week, do you think we'll be moved in by then?" Ron just shrugged. "I miss saving the world."

"Me too, though I'm sure you'll have plenty of opportunities to save me." Kim let out a laugh and leaned into Ron's shoulder. He let his feet slide out across the floor and rested his head against the fake wood. "Welcome to Oak Street." 


	2. Squirrel Poisoning Cult Member

AN: More neighbors! W00t! Ron centered, because I like to pick on him. 

Disclaimer: I don't own Kim or Ron, but Mrs. Peters is mine, I guess.

Chapter Quote: When the last tree is felled, the last river poisoned and the last fish dead, we will realize that we can't eat money. - Greenpeace

…

Kim dropped the shovel to her side and wiped her brow, admiring her handiwork. "Big enough?"

Ron picked the baby tree up by its trunk and lowered it into the hole. "Looks good." He untied the string holding the cloth on and set the oak in, stepping back to marvel at the new and improved backyard. "Now Oak Street has an oak tree, our backyard has some character, and…"

"I have class." Kim brushed her hands off while Ron snapped a picture.

"Already? It's only," he glanced at his watch, "noon. And Saturday. I was going to make PB and J." He snapped a picture of her. "Heh, that rhymes."

Kim gave a pathetic smile and handed him the shovel. "Rain check?" They traded a soft kiss. "Tomorrow?" Ron hugged her loosely, slipping his free hand under her blouse to touch the skin of her lower back. He nodded and gave her another kiss before she pulled away.

"Tomorrow." She headed back toward the house, turning at the sliding glass door to wave. "Have fun."

Ron looked at the oak tree, frowning. "Oh yeah, tree planting: the new extreme sport. Any more excitement like this and I might have to take a nap."

"You're the new neighbors, eh?" A squeaky voice called out to his right. Ron turned around. "Doin' yard work? You enjoy yard work, boy?"

Ron found himself looking down at an old lady, no taller than five feet and barely wider than the new tree, with thick glasses dangling off of a round nose and peppered hair wrapped in a tight bun. She looked over 80, with wrinkles everywhere, and every inch of skin except her face and hands was covered with thick, dark cloth. "I like it all right, Mrs… I'm Ron Stoppable, by the way." He held out his hand.

"Mrs. Peters." She rested her fingers in his for a second before pulling away. A long, bony finger complete with pink nail polish was thrust in front of Ron's nose. "You, you did something!"

Ron raised an eyebrow. "Did I? I planted a tree." He pointed at the tree. "Although technically I haven't put dirt over it yet, don't wanna rush the beautification process."

"I'm not talking about the tree!" Mrs. Peters' chest swelled with a deep intake of breath. "Well, Ronald, I've been watching you very closely and before you moved in your yard had squirrels and I haven't seen them since!"

Ron resisted the urge to bend onto one knee in order to hear her better. "Ma'am?"

"You sprinkled stuff all over your lawn!"

"Oh." Ron chuckled, his stomach growling, "grass seeds. Our grass is patchy, see?" He pointed with the shovel at a patch of dirt, covered in green seeds.

The finger started waving back and forth. "Rubbish, I'm old, but I'm no fool, Ronald!"

Ron nodded, trying to avoid being whacked by the finger. "All right, you're not an old fool. But I am, what did I do? And what do grass seeds have to do with squirrels?"

"You're poisoning the squirrels!"

"What!"

"Don't you act surprised, boy." Mrs. Peters glared, her eyes squinting under the weight of the wrinkles. "They were here before you moved in, you sprinkled the yard, and now they're gone!"

Ron raised an eyebrow, setting the shovel down. "Ma'am, the squirrels lived in our garage, they left when we moved in because we were loud and scary," he wiggled his fingers to add affect.

Mrs. Peters paused her finger and silently debated, mouth slightly open. Ron wondered if he looked like that when he was baffled. Suddenly her eyes lit up. "If that's true, then why haven't they moved back?"

Ron shrugged. "Interest rates?"

"I'm not laughing, Ronald, squirrel poisoning is no joke!" The wagging finger returned. "What young man poisons innocent, hapless, adorable little squirrels, anyway?"

Ron took a step back, putting his hands up in defense. "All right, Mrs. Peters, this is going a bit far…"

"And what young man moves all of the way out here? Why so far from the college, eh?"

"One with a steady salary? …Are you Canadian, by chance?"

Mrs. Peters' cheeks turned red. "Don't interrupt me, Ronald. Where was I?" She tapped her chin with the previously wagging finger. "Ah yes, and what young man has such a pretty little wife digging holes?"

Ron raised an eyebrow. "Uh… what?"

Mrs. Peters' eyes lit up behind her glasses, making them look even bigger. "What kind, eh?"

Ron sighed, as though waiting for a bad punch line. "I dunno, what kind?"

"A cult member!"

"What!"

"I know trouble when I see it! I traveled in my younger days, Ronald," the finger was waving so hard Ron was afraid it might fly off.

"Me too." He slapped a hand over his mouth.

Mrs. Peters' five foot frame shook with built up anger. Her fists clenched open and closed, her eyes narrowed to wrinkle-covered slits, and her face turned a shade of dark purple. Her right foot lifted up and bent back, then swung forward with forced momentum, kicking Ron in the shin.

"OW!" Ron grabbed his foot and hopped in place, trying to gain back his lost balance.

Hands on hips, Mrs. Peters watched him. "I've got my eye on you, Ronald, you and your squirrel killing cult buddies." She kicked his other shin for good measure. "And I'm warning the whole neighborhood!" She turned and started across the yard. "Oh, and tell your little wife, Kim, thank you for the gingersnaps, I did love them."

…

Pokey: thanks, that's my nickname in high school, by the way (every group should have a pokey)

Aliciamartin851: thanks for reviewing, hope you enjoy this chapter

Gargoylesama: you're questions will be answered, just not quite yet, I'd like to think it becomes clearer throughout the story, but knowing me I'll give up on hinting and just tell you guys straight out.

Mist: yep, oak tree! Glad you like it so much so far, and I hope that the story does live up to its potential. And yeah, Ron does kind of adopt the neighborhood kids, that's how it was in my neighborhood, too.

Dudei'mlikesobus: yeah, the first chapter feels very awkward to me, too, but I hope this one's a better read. It was written in one sitting, instead of two, which helps. Good luck with the world domination thing.


	3. You Lied to Me

AN: Not a favorite of mine, but still a cute chapter. Ron and Kim get a computer from Wade.

Disclaimer: I don't own Ron, Kim, Wade, the twins, or the roadrunner

Chapter Quote: Experience: that is the most brutal of teachers

…

"Yeah. Uhuh. Well that sounds nice, Wade, but I only need it to write papers. No no no, all I'm saying is that we don't really need to watch CIA satellite video of our lawn in real time… sure it sounds cool. All ready ordered it? Wade…" Kim switched the cordless phone to her other ear, sitting on the futon next to her husband. "I'm not sure either of us is that computer savvy. Ok, well thanks again." She pressed the talk button and tossed the phone onto the cushion.

Ron paused the game and set down the controller, switching to Cartoon Network with the remote. He lifted up his arm and draped it over Kim's shoulder as she leaned into his chest. "How's Wade?"

"Outdoing himself, as usual."

Ron stretched his legs out in front of him and let out a content sigh. "Good, good." He kissed the top of Kim's head as the blue roadrunner ran across the screen. "Finally some relaxation ti-"

DING DONG!

"Oh come on!"

Kim sat up, "I'll get it."

"Naw, I got it. What's the point in relaxing if I can't do it with you?" He handed her the remote and crossed the room to the door, avoiding random boxes and pieces of furniture.

The UPS man looked up from his clipboard as the door opened. "Mr. Stoppable, I take it?" Ron let out a grunt. "New computer's here, sir." The man stepped aside to reveal two other men unloading half a dozen large boxes from the back of the truck.

"Good God."

Kim walked up to his side, wrapping her arm around Ron's waste. "That's the new computer?"

"Guess so."

"…I thought they were supposed to get smaller."

"That's what I said," the UPS man chuckled. "Anyway," he cleared his throat, "sign here and she's all yours."

Kim reached for the clipboard but Ron stopped her. "Oh no, not this time. First you guys put it in the second room on the left down the hall, then we'll sign."

The UPS man frowned and pulled the clipboard back, "clever, very clever, but you still have to put it together."

"Piece of cake."

…

Ron sat in the middle of the spare bedroom, wrapped in wires and cables, surrounded by monitors and computer shells, holding the end of a wire in each hand and inspecting them. He glanced at the instruction booklet. "Unlock the monitor and connected in the computer. 'Connected in?' Who translated this?" He grabbed the monitor plug and pulled it over to him, lifting up the black LCD screen and looking it over.

The lump of boxes in the corner shifted and Kim poked her head out. "Wanna call Wade?"

"Not until we're desperate!"

Ron dropped the wire in his left hand and grabbed a blue cable. Kim looked him over, shoving a box aside. "What level are we at now?"

"Overwhelmed. Besides, I know he's timing me. Probably has a bet going with the twins." Ron connected the monitor and computer. "Got a keyboard over there?"

Kim rolled her eyes, muttering "men," but slid a box across the carpet anyway.

After a few minutes of desperate struggling and cursing, Ron flipped the computer on. The screen lit up, blue light shining across his face. "Boo-yah!" Text scrolled up as the computer loaded for the first time. Suddenly the screen turned black, a message box popping up.

Error: No sound system detected.

Ron's smile faded. He looked around his pile, hands searching. "I know I unpacked them… Ahah!" Ron plugged the speakers in, grappling with the wires again, and turned them on.

"Error corrected." A woman's voice greeted.

"Boo-yah!"

"Error: No mouse detected."

Ron sighed, "you have a mouse over there, Kim?" A mouse flew through the air and landed in the pile. Ron plugged it in.

"Error corrected."

"Piece of cake!"

"Error: No CD drive connected."

Ron raised an eyebrow, "what?"

Kim sighed and stood up, pushing boxes out of the way. "I'll go call Wade."

Ron waved for her to come back, but Kim was all ready gone. "I've got this!"

"Error: No DVD drive connected."

"No, wait, stop!" Ron tapped the screen.

"Error: No disk in disk drive, please insert a disk or press any key to continue."

Ron took a deep breath, "any key, ok. Sure." He tapped enter.

"Error: No disk in disk drive, please insert a disk or press any key to continue."

Ron glared and pointed at the screen. "You lied to me." He tapped 'u.'

"Error: No disk in disk drive-"

"I'll error you!" Ron punched every key that his fingers could find.

"Error: Incorrect key sequence, press 'esc' to quit or any key to continue."

"Quitting sounds good, Wade can mess with you." Ron tapped esc.

"Error: Incorrect key sequence, press 'esc' to quit or any key to continue."

Ron took a deep breath, his face turning red, and inspected the keyboard. "What 'any key?' There's no 'any key' on here!"

"Error: Incorrect key sequence-"

"Yeah, I know!" Ron gripped the keyboard firmly in his hands and ripped it in half, keys flying everywhere. "Any key… any key…" He inspected the two halves, a deep frown marring his face. "There's no 'any key!' Ow!" He dropped the bottom half of the keyboard and popped his finger into his mouth. "It shocked me!"

"Error: Incorrect key sequence-"

"Quiet, you!" Ron pointed at the screen, the keyboard sparking in front of his lap. "Ah! Sparks!" He grabbed his bottle of water and ripped the top off. "Die, computer fiend!" Ron splashed the water.

"Ron! What are you doing!"

Ron turned to find Kim, along with her twin brothers, in the doorway. "Fixing the computer- which is ON FIRE!" He jumped up and made to sprint toward the door even as Tim grabbed the fire extinguisher, but the wires caught and he tripped, falling flat on his face. Tim leapt over him and attacked the keyboard and monitor.

Kim raised the phone back to her face. "Wade, I'll call you back." She hung up and bent down, ruffling her husband's hair. "What happened to 'desperate?'"

"The computer skipped a few stages." He let out a grunt, trying to wiggle loose.

Jim and Tim each seized an arm and lifter their brother-in-law up. "You're crazy, Ron."

…

fanjimmy: What can I say? Life is weird

Casakitten: For the most part this will be updated everyday before 10:00 PM EST, but if I get horrible at updating (which is common), I'll definitely start a mailing list. Glad you like it so far.

Pokey: Yeah, Ron's going to be abused… a lot, but it's ok, he's tough

Baz: Thanks! Having my stories in character is really important to me, and I'm glad that you appreciate it, too

Imperial Navy Officer: Ah yes, Rufus. I haven't added him yet because I didn't know how long naked mole rats live in captivity, but he will be in future chapters as, luckily for Ron, they live up to 10 years

Shepyt: Thanks, I'm glad that you're enjoying these so far

CPO3: Ooo, another in character comment! I'm on a roll! Kim is definitely dealing a lot better than Ron is, and that will be a main point in the series 


	4. Black and Blue and Gray

AN: Character development! A really long chapter! Time to test loyalty and patience! 

Disclaimer: I don't own Kim or Ron

When one sees oneself as only finite one becomes a number, just one man more, one more repetition - Kierkegaard

…

"Traffic leading into the city is bumper to bumper, but there are no major accidents to report yet. It's 65 degrees outside this morning, expect a high of 72 degrees and it's going to get sticky. It's 7:32 AM and this is 93.5, here's an oldie, 'People are Strange' by the Doors."

Ron wiped the sweat off of his forehead and adjusted his rear-view mirror. He stuck his arm out the open window, tapping his fingers against the door, and glanced at the sea of cars around him. The man in the minivan next to him was dancing back and forth in his seat, lips moving to the song, while munching on a donut, ignoring crumbs as they tumbled out of his mouth and down his shirt. The woman in the Ford Taurus to the right was yelling, with all of her windows rolled up, honking every few seconds, and flipping the driver in front of her off.

The car in front of Ron scooted forward and he lifted his foot off the break to follow, the car behind him doing the same, and the car behind that one, and the car behind that one, and the car behind that one, and so on for miles. There was no visible beginning to the traffic, and no end, the only change was the skyline slowly coming into focus from inside the layer of smog.

"Boy I tell ya, Bill, it may be only 65, but with that sun all ready half up and the humidity, it feels like I'm baking in the oven."

"Couldn't agree more, Sue, and the smog sure doesn't help. I feel like I'm in a swamp."

Ron rolled his eyes, hitting the seek button. "Not helping, guys. Doesn't anyone play music in the morning?" The radio settled on a boring melody with a light accompaniment. Ron turned on his right blinker, scooting with the traffic, listening to elevator music, and riding the break.

…

Ron parked his neon in the twelfth spot in the last row of the third floor of the garage and headed for the elevator. He waved at an older man in a gray suit who held the door for him.

"Morning, Ron." He stepped inside.

"Morning, Phil." The doors closed.

"First floor?" A finger pressed the '1' button.

"First floor." Elevator music floated to their ears.

"How's work?" A shift of the briefcase.

"Fine. You?" The elevator slowed.

"Good. See you later?" The doors opened.

"Later." They stepped out and parted ways.

Ron filtered into the crowds of suits, walking three blocks north, surrounded by gray and blue and black. Near forever the street went on, lined with buildings who's upper stories disappeared into the unnatural clouds, filled with the yellow and green of taxis, swollen with the swarms of people. Ron shoved his way to the left and walked down the stairs to the station, brushing shoulders with people he'd never know, pulling out his keys and sliding the subway pass through the slot. One of the guards nodded to him.

"Mornin', Ron." Ron slapped two dollars down on the counter of the food stand, ignoring an elbow shoved into his back as someone hurried by.

"Mornin', Dave." He grabbed the newspaper and coffee Dave set out and started for the train car, dodging a little girl running through. "See you at five." He slid between the doors just as they were closing and let out a tired sigh. The car was packed, leaving Ron to lean against a seat. Somewhere close by a baby cried, piercing the dull chatter. He flinched as the train jerked to life, spilling a bit of the coffee onto his hand. On and on the train went, people filing off, people filing on, all black or blue or gray.

…

Ron pulled open the glass door to the office building and entered the lounge, his shoes clicking on the metal floor. The security guard glanced at him before going back to his morning paper. "Morning, Stoppable."

Ron hit the 'up' button on the elevator. "Morning, Mr. Peters." He stepped in and hit 15, sliding to the front corner as a few more people filed in. As the doors slid shut Ron watched his reflection come into focus. His gray suit looked tired and worn, and his hair clung to his forehead with sweat. His paper was tucked under the arm that held his generic coffee, already wrinkled, while a black brief case dangled from the other. He sighed as the doors rolled open and stepped into the hallway.

"Morning, Mr. Stoppable." He walked past the secretary, giving her a nod.

"Morning, Nancy." He opened the door to his office and stepped in, nodding at the man in the other desk. "Morning Mel."

The man grunted, shifting through papers absentmindedly. Ron sighed, the pile in front of him calling out for help. He pulled out pen and started filling out orders.

"Request 1,000 orders of lot #5127, do not exceed 1,500 orders, require 500 orders. Request 800 orders of lot #5813, do not exceed 1,200 orders, require 600 orders." Ron rubbed his eyes, filling out the form with 900 and 750. There was no logic to the process, only repetition. He put the form in the out pile and grabbed the next one. "Request 1,500 orders of lot #5394, do not exceed 1,600 orders, require 1,200 orders, require over-night delivery…"

…

Ron chewed a bite of his ham sandwich slowly, watching the people drift between the yellow taxis below. He admired the large window for a second, enjoying the view of the business district. Everything blended together 15 stories below, to the point where it was impossible to tell where one person ended and the next started. He swiveled around in his chair and picked up his pen, going back to work. In four hours he would be down there, lost with all of those people, drifting through the streets, indistinguishable from 15 stories above. He hated to think about it.

…

"Have a nice afternoon, Mr. Stoppable."

"You too. See you tomorrow, Nancy." Ron hit the 'down' button, his briefcase in one hand and newspaper in the other. The doors opened with a ding and he joined the crowd of the slowly filling elevator.

"Hey, Ron." A chorus of tired voices rang out.

"Hey guys." Elevator music drifted from the speakers as people passed in and out.

"You have a nice evening, Ron."

"Thanks Mr. Peters, say 'hi' to Mrs. Peters for me."

The security guard chuckled. "Doubtful, she hates you." They traded grins and Ron stepped out onto the sidewalk, falling into the crowd.

Swipe the card, enter the train, tuck the newspaper under an arm, grab the handle. Blue and black and gray drift in and out, in and out.

"Evening, Dave." Ron slapped a dollar on the counter.

"Hey Ron, got time to chat?" Dave handed him a coffee. Ron shook his head, taking a sip, ignoring the burn. "Dinner night, eh? I'll see you tomorrow." Ron nodded and headed for the stairs.

Ron entered the sidewalk, breathing in the congested air. He sighed, drifting into the crowd of people for the three block walk to the garage.

Phil was in the elevator, holding the door. "Nice evening, Ron."

"Not bad, Phil." He stepped inside.

"Third floor?" The doors closed.

"Third floor." A finger hit the '3' button.

"How's the family?" Elevator music drifted down.

"Fine, you?" A shift of the briefcase.

"Good. Poker Saturday?" The elevator slowed.

"Saturday." The door opened and they parted ways. Ron unlocked his neon door and crawled in, unrolling the window. Down ramp after ramp, fifteen dollars for parking, and into the sea of cars and people and buildings.

"Traffic leading out of the city is bumper to bumper, but no major accidents to report yet. It's 74 degrees outside this evening with 84 percent humidity. It's 5:03 PM and this is 93.5, here's an oldie by the Rolling Stones, 'Satisfaction,' stay cool."

Ron wiped the sweat off of his forehead and adjusted his rear-view mirror, sticking his arm out the open window. The drivers acted the same as ever and Ron feared being lost in the shuffle back and forth. Would he be here, in this very spot, ten years from now? How many hundreds of days would he do this? To him all of the cars, all of the people, they were just there, like background noise or obstacles to be avoided. Was that what he was to them? Just another car, one more person tossed into the swarm? Ten years from now would his temporary office job be permanent? Would Kim be sitting in this traffic, too, just one more car on the highway?

It was only after he had turned the car off and put his foot on the driveway pavement that Ron realized he was home. How could he do that, where had the last hour gone? Where had his day gone? He stood up and shut the door, taking off his suit jacket for the first time since eight o'clock this morning. He could feel his shirt sticking to him with sweat and vowed to fix the air conditioning, just like yesterday. Up the driveway, along the walkway, open the door, drop the briefcase, glare at the piles of full boxes, toss away the coffee cup, head for the bathroom, grab a towel.

Ron rubbed the fluffy purple towel between his fingers, his other hand still on the closet doorknob, staring at the wall. Why did they have purple towels, anyway? Why didn't he put his foot down at the store, while they were staring at shelves and shelves of towels, and demand blue towels? Was a blue towel what he wanted, would it really make him happy? And what was wrong with him, anyway, getting upset over towels? It was a purple towel, not a minivan, or some cat named Mr. Bubbles...

…

Kim turned the corner into the hall to find her husband standing still, with his hand on the door, staring at the wall. "Ron?"

Ron blinked and turned, dropping his hand from the door. He gave a slight smile. "Hey, Kim." He watched mutely as she closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug. Ron's arms dropped to his sides as he looked down at the girl whose head was pressed against his neck. "I'm… all sweaty."

Arms just hugged him tighter. "I don't care." The purple towel fell to the floor as Ron draped his arms around Kim, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. He felt her sigh. "You ok?"

Ron nodded, "Getting there again." His eyes drifted to the fallen towel. "I'm still all sweaty." Kim lifted her head, raising an eyebrow to hide her amusement, but Ron just smirked.

…

PotatoMaiden: Nice to know I'm worth keeping an eye on… I think

gargoylesama: Heh, yeah. Who knew domestication was so challenging?

LKillingsworth: I freakin' hate UPS! You're right, I made them way too… useful.

Pokey: You and me, both, computers can really suck.

CPO3: I concur, and have actually had the 'any key' message fail on me, although I didn't set my computer on fire.

Miss Piratess: Squee! A thousand thanks for reviewing my other KP fic, I'm quite proud of it. And thanks for reading and reviewing after just waking up, that's never easy.

The Desert Fox: Well, when he gets that adrenaline running…

Imperial Navy Officer: Ditto to that, like this thing is kind of pissing me off right now.

Mist: We may never know who won… ah, I'm just kidding, Wade gives Ron a little too much credit.


	5. Meow

AN: Heck yeah it's a short one, what am I to you people, a machine!

Disclaimer: Blah blah blah, don't own, don't sue.

Chapter Quote: "There are two means of refuge from the miseries of life: music and cats." - Albert Schweitzer

…

Ron eyed the ball of fluff cupped in the palms of Kim's hands, a frown marring his features. "No."

"But Ron, just look at it! It's adorable!" Kim held out the white ball in her hands, pouting her bottom lip.

Ron focused on the fluff, ignoring Kim's puppy dog face. "It's a lump of fur, I don't see anything adorable about-" Two big, round, blue eyes blinked open and stared at Ron, moist and sad. Ron put a hand over his eyes, "no! Don't look at me like that! The answer's no. No, no, no. I mean it."

"…Meow." Ron winced, oh that sounded pathetic. He peeked through his fingers to see two pairs of big, round eyes staring back at him.

"Just pet it, Ron." Kim lifted the ball of fluff higher, rubbing it against Ron's cheek. His face cringed, but his arm disobeyed him and reached up to scratch the fluff. The lump leaned into his touch, shivering with a tiny purr.

"…Meow."

Ron sighed. "Damn it." 


	6. General Tormento!

AN: Uh… I'm late for work because of this, so you'd better like it. 

Disclaimer: Don't own!

Chapter Quote: I'll add one later (after I get fired)

…

Vvoom… vroom, vroom…

A brown eye slowly winked open, dazed.

VVOOM!

Ron rolled onto his back and swatted at his eyes, blinking at the ceiling.

Vroom… vroom…

He felt Kim shift beside him and glanced at the alarm clock. 5:03. "What the hell…?"

Vrooree, wee!

Kim sat up, blinking away the last wisps of sleep. "Bob?"

Ron sighed, grinding his teeth together. "Bob." Kim nodded and pulled off the comforter, but Ron stopped her hand. "I've got it."

"You sure?"

Vvoom!

He nodded, letting out a yawn. "Yeah, I'm sure." He leaned over and kissed her cheek. "Get some sleep." Ron tossed his blankets back and swung his feet off the side of the bed. He slipped on his slippers and tucked the comforter around his wife, kissing her forehead, before heading out of the room.

Squeeeee!

His hand dragged along the hallway wall as he rubbed his eyes.

Vroom… VROOM!

He unlocked the door and stepped outside, the crisp air making him break out into goose bumps. He marched across the lawn, the morning breeze ruffling his disheveled hair. "Bob."

Bob sat in his new sports convertible, Ron did not have the patience to figure out what kind, gripping the steering wheel.

Vvoom!

"Bob!"

The engine roared again.

Ron reached the passenger side of the car and leaned over, tapping Bob's shoulder. "BOB!"

Bob jumped and turned to look at Ron, removing his sunglasses. "Oh, hey kiddo! Come to check out my new toy?" Bob grinned and raised his eyebrows, pressing the gas again, his mustache wiggling excitedly.

Ron sighed, ignoring the nickname. "Bob, it's five in the morning." He eyed the sunglasses. "The sun isn't even up."

"5:10, kiddo." Bob pointed at his radio/CD/MP3 player/thermometer/clock.

Ron rubbed his face. "Whatever, I have to leave for work at seven and Kim has an 8 o'clock lab."

Bob nodded, "well I'm leaving for work now, Ron, and my baby needs to be warmed up." He tapped the steering wheel affectionately. "Nice boxers, kiddo."

Ron looked down at his Garfield boxers, a light blush rising to his cheeks. "Couldn't you just turn it on and let it sit?"

Bob frowned. "Then no one would hear it."

"Exactly. And more importantly, Bob, I wouldn't hear it."

Bob sighed and nodded with false empathy. "You know, when I was your age I went crazy for new cars, if my older neighbor had a new car I'd ask him to take me around the block before going to work. You've gotta lighten up, kiddo."

Ron grinned, if Kim could have heard that. "I'm not into cars much, Bob."

Bob pointed to Ron's neon. "Well believe me, boy, I can see that."

"What in the devil is goin' on out here?"

Ron and Bob flinched. "Nothing, Mrs. Peters."

Mrs. Peters walked around the car once, her frown growing with each step, before stopping next to Ron. "Why the noise? Eh?" She looked at Bob, who shrank back into his seat. "He trying to convince you to join his squirrel killing cult, Bob?"

Ron sighed. "Mrs. Peters, I'm not poisoning the squirrels."

"Covering up your secret conversation with this thing, eh?" She kicked the front tire. Bob's mustache flinched, his face turning red, but said nothing.

"I'm not part of a secret cult, Mrs. Peters." Ron motioned to the car. "I'm trying to get him to turn it off!"

Mrs. Peters' five foot frame shook, her face turning red. She raised her right foot as high as she could and swung it back, kicking Ron in the shin.

"Ow!" Ron grabbed his foot.

"Don't lie, boy! And don't you raise your voice!" She wagged her bony finger in front of his nose. "Only worshipers of Satan lie!" She kicked him in the other shin. "You devil worshiping, squirrel poisoning, cult member!"

"Ow!"

Bob shifted into reverse, "well this has been…" his mustache twitched, "fun. But I'm running late, you have a nice day Mrs. Peters, kiddo." He floored the convertible, a Honda, Ron noticed, and peeled out, flying down the road. He sighed in defeat.

"I'm watching you, Ronald." Mrs. Peters' wagging finger returned.

Ron headed across his yard, waving her off. "Yeah, yeah."

"Bob's a family man, you stop your evil preaching ways!"

"Ok, Mrs. Peters."

"Oh, and say hello to your little wife, Kim, for me." Ron gave a last wave and shut his front door. He shuffled down the hallway, his feet dragging, and paused next to his side of the bed to kick off his slippers. He let out a yawn and stretched, glancing at the clock, 5:18, before leaning a knee on the mattress, a hand lifting the welcoming covers. His pillow shifted, purring. "Morning, General Tormento." He pet the kitten's back before lifting it up and setting it down on the other side of Kim.

"Harmony."

Ron frowned, crawling into the warm bed and pulling the covers up to his chin, "that's no way to greet your husband." He pulled Kim against his chest.

She let out a small squeal, "you're cold!"

Ron buried his icy nose in her neck. "But you're warm." The arm wrapped loosely around her stomach reached out and pet the kitten, who purred happily.

"The kitten's name is Harmony, not General Tormento."

His hand held hers as his head dropped back onto his pillow. "Nonsense, what emperor of the world has a name like 'Harmony?'" He let out a yawn.

"I don't think our kitten is going to take over the world, no offence."

Ron clicked his tongue. "Crushing the General's dreams, Kim." The kitten in question stood up and stretched before wandering to the space on top of the blanket between Ron and Kim and laying down. Ron glanced down at her. "She'll win over the masses with those pretty eyes."

"Pretty eyes, pretty name." Kim's voice was laced with sleep. Ron let the argument drop, he would win this one, just later… after sleep.

…

fanjimmy: He is not! …entirely… …100 percent… …heh…

Craz obsessed: Aw! Thanks! I'm glad you like it so much, sorry about review problems, I hate those.

Imperial Navy Officer: There is no escaping the kitty eyes!

Eternal Sidekick: Me too, they have the whole family under their hypnotic control.

Captainkodak1: Thanks! To say Ron and Kim have different tastes in cat names is like saying all generalizations are false. Loved your 'naptime' piece, by the way.

Mist: Rufus will be in, I swears!

crazyfreak-o-manic: I thought about it when I started writing that chapter, but the kitty needed a rank 


	7. The Butterflies of Doom

AN: Been awhile, I know. These next couple of weeks are going to be sporadic in the update department. Woo. Also, this chapter isn't really edited well, or entertaining, but I'm a violent person, so I like it.

Disclaimer: I don't own Kim or Ron, or enough paintball equipment to do this, but that'd be sweet if I did.

Chapter Quote: It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat. - Theodore Roosevelt

…

Kane tossed his history book to the side and stabbed his worksheet with his pencil. "History sucks, who cares about WWI?"

…

The burning light of the golden sun warmed their backs, to the west near three. The tall grass waved lazily with a cool breeze all around them. Hills of dirt scattered the landscape, white clouds scattered the sky. Ron looked to his left, crouched behind a mound, where ten boys hid, gun in hand, awaiting his orders. To his right another line of boys in yellow, all shaking with excitement and anticipation. No one spoke, all was quiet on the Western front…

"Meow." The white ball of fluff rubbed against Ron's leg lovingly.

"Hey, kitty." He reached down and scratched under the kitten's chin with a gloved hand. "I don't think you're supposed to be an outside kitty." His hand moved from the kitten's tilted chin to its soft belly. He picked it up, cradling it close to his chest and petting it. "Besides, I don't want you to get shot, General Tormento. Timeout! Civilian on the field!" Ron stood up from behind his mound of dirt and walked the 100 yards to the sliding door of his ranch. He pulled it open and set the fluff inside, patting it on the head. "Good kitty." He sprinted back to his mound and gave a thumbs up. "Time in!"

Ron looked to Dusty, a few yards away, who nodded, goggles pulled tight, gun clasped to chest. He looked at Kane, near the end of the line of boys, who also nodded. Ron patted a boy next to him on the head before holding up his hand and counting down. "Five… four… three… two… GO!"

He leapt over the mound of dirt and began running across the wide span of no man's land, gun poised loosely in front of him. After 25 yards the line of yellow began to break as the opposite mounds grew closer, barrels popping up over the line of dirt, glistening in the sun.

Ron paused and fired two paintballs, starting a round of sporadic fire that the team followed in hopes that their enemies would be reluctant to show their faces. The boy running next to Ron got splattered in the chest by a blue paintball and reluctantly fell to his knees, pouting. "I never get to invade the trenches."

Ron slowed his pace and stopped firing when the lumps were twenty feet away, dropping onto his stomach and pretending to crawl under invisible barbed wire. What was left of his troops joined him, grunting and shouting "no fair" when someone was sniped off. After a few feet Ron got onto his hands and knees and crawled to the mound of dirt, crouching against it and shaking his paint gun. Dusty leaned beside him, shaking his gun with his left arm, his right splashed in blue and thus blown off. "How many men do you have left?"

Dusty licked his lips, eyes scanning the yellow for familiar faces. "Five." Before long half of the Stoppable regiment was sidled up against the dirt, the other ten still struggling dramatically against the wire or pretending to be dead. Ron motioned for them to keep their heads low. "Where's Kane?"

Ron pointed down the line where the other commander was counting men. Kane held up four fingers, frowning. "Alright, on my mark we jump over." Dusty nodded and motioned to Kane. Ron tilted his gun barrel over the top of the mound and pulled the trigger, swinging it lazily back and forth. An eruption of shrieks followed and the yellow troops leapt up, shooting red paintballs at anything that moved.

Behind the mound the Butterflies of Doom regiment was prepared. They had backed up five yards from the dirt piles and spread out on their stomachs, making for difficult quick targets. The Stoppable regiment, standing on the mounds of dirt, where completely vulnerable, however.

Ron saw the bright red hair of the enemy commander and their eyes met, both shining with an excitement that had not been there for months. Kim smirked and fired a single shot. Next to Ron Dusty fell clutching his stomach with his good hand and making terrible faces of pain. "Why! Why me! Commander… tell my mother… I say goodbye! The darkness! Closing in! Too young!"

"Retreat!" Ron leapt over the invisible barbed wire, much to the dismay of the troops who had just finished crawling out, and ran backwards, picking off green shirts as they chased his team back.

When the last of his men, a scrawny nine year old wearing goggles that covered his entire upper face, ran past, Ron turned around and sprinted for his trench, scooping up goggle face in his arms on the way. Paintballs flew left and right as his soldiers picked off Butterflies.

He slid behind a trench and sat down his little soldier before returning fire. The green soldiers were running in weaving and crisscrossing patterns across the field, returning fire heavily. Kane sidled his way over to his commander. "Eleven men are left, sir, including you and me! We're getting beat by girls, sir! They're really spitting out rounds, too!"

Ron picked off one of the smaller girls. "Better shot at than shot, besides, with the way they're spraying bullets they'll be out of ammo before they reach the wire!" Kane did not look convinced and the girls were starting on the barbed wire as they spoke. Ron winked, pulled out a wiffle ball filled with paintballs and pressed a button, tossing it between three girls crawling through. "Duck!" The two commanders dropped their heads as a shower of red paint flew over the makeshift wall.

"Eww! Gross!"

"Retreat!" Ron and Kane high fived.

…

Ron wiped his face with a towel as the kids watched, sipping lemonade. "So that's the basics of WWI trench warfare."

"Wicked!"

"Any questions?"

A hand shot up. "We're doing the Civil War! Can we do a Civil War battle?"

Ron nodded, shrugging. "Next Saturday, sure." 


	8. Ewww

AN: Uh, ok. So this has been sitting on my hard drive for the past two days and I've been really torn about posting it, so if you would like to keep your innocence and love for old people, just… skip this chapter. Also, I'm hoping to reach 10 chapters before I leave for a year, but this story will never have a 'final' chapter, so I might write while I'm gone.

Disclaimer: I don't own Kim or Ron. Any of my characters (ex: General Tormento, Mrs. Peters) are up for grabs, though, if you have an urge to use 'em.

Chapter Quote: Ahhh...I see the screw-up fairy has visited us again... - my muse, blame it on him

…

Ron separated the blinds with his fingers and peered out the window, his eyes shifting up and down Oak Street, searching. "You're being paranoid, Ron." Kim leaned on the kitchen doorframe still dressed in her pajamas, sipping at her coffee.

Eyes searched the street warily. "One, no I'm not, and two, my hunches are, like, 50/50, so I'm due to be right again soon. Aha! There he is!" Three houses down across the street a door opened. The postman stepped out and tipped his hat before heading down the driveway. Ron glared at the blue suit as it crossed the street and headed for the Stoppable mailbox, hand shuffling through tan bag. "Why would he go from Mrs. Peters' house to ours?" The postman paused, hand in mailbag, and looked up from the box. Ron jumped back from the window.

Kim rolled her eyes. "Because Mrs. Peters is 1835, 1836 is Dave, who works at the post office and gets his mail there, 1837 is the Smiths, who are on vacation in the Bahamas-"

"Lucky richies." Ron crossed his arms, frowning.

"And 1838 and 1839 are both for sale, so the next house he comes to is 1840, which is ours." Kim sat down on the couch and turned the TV on to morning news.

"Then why does he always look around?"

"Because he can feel you watching him, the man is a retired navy seals."

Ron darted back to the window and separated the blinds. "Retired?" The postman was moving on to Bob's. "He can't be more than 50."

The reporters droned on about some new ordinance. "He's 63 and military can retire after 20 years."

Ron pouted. "Should've done that." He sighed and headed for the couch. "Still say Mrs. Peters is paying him to spy on us."

Kim set down her half empty mug of coffee, still not used to the flavor, and leaned back into Ron's chest. "I doubt it."

Ron looked down at his wife, a look of innocent confusion on his face. "What do you mean?"

Kim tilted her head and kissed his chin. "I mean that… he's been the postman since they built this area fifteen years ago."

Ron pulled back a bit and kissed the side of her mouth, losing interest in the conversation fast. "And…?"

"And…" Kim shifted her shoulders as his hand slipped into her hair and his lips found her jaw line. "…so has Mrs. Peters."

"But he, uh… he goes back to her house after his rounds. To talk about us."

Kim kissed her husband on the lips before pulling back to meet his eyes. "Ron… he doesn't go back to talk."

For fifteen seconds the only sound was the television. Ron's face shifted from confused to thoughtful to shocked before settling on disgusted. "What? Ew! …Nut uh. Ewww!" He shuddered. "She's so… old and, how do you know, anyway?"

Kim shrugged innocently. "Neighborhood gossip."

Ron stood up, frowning. "Well, that worked better than any cold shower. I'm gonna… unpack some boxes, or something." He shuddered again. "Ew!"

…

Digisim: What is up with that creepy old lady? Heh, just got creepier, eh?

Mist: I'm a big fan of Teddy, he's probably my favorite president, so I quote him all the time.

Rikagirls: Aw, thanks! I hope I don't disappoint. 


	9. We Don't Have Large

AN: First things, first, a thousand apologies for the lack of updating, my account was frozen for five days. A bit of a dark humor chapter, Ron gets a little stressed out about life and… yeah, maybe a little OOC, but I think it's debatable, and as a psychology nerd am willing to debate it. My apologies if you work at Starbucks. 

Disclaimer: I don't own Kim, Ron, Monique, Felix, Starbucks, Sears, JC Penny, Dick's, Lazarus, or gameboy.

Chapter Quote: "As nightfall does not come at once, neither does oppression. In both instances, there's a twilight where everything remains seemingly unchanged, and it is in such twilight that we must be aware of change in the air, however slight, lest we become unwitting victims of the darkness." - William O. Douglas

…

Ron fiddled with the radio, waiting for the light to turn and the dozen cars in front of him to move. Monique and Kim chatted in the back seat, catching up, while Felix played his gameboy in the front. With a sigh Ron clicked the radio off. Lately he detested the mall and shopping in general, not to mention the stress of the four lane highway and the fourteen traffic lights between the off ramp and the first entrance to the parking lot. In high school the mall was where he and Kim went to take their minds off of things, but lately there had not been anything to take their minds off of. It became habit, and habits became chores.

Out of the corner of his eye Ron saw the car in front of him move and he lifted his foot off of the break. The neon crept forward dutifully, Ron's foot switching to the gas, when a blue motorcycle swerved in front of him and sped through the light as it turned yellow, flipping Ron off. Ron cursed the traffic.

…

Ron let out a sigh and stared longingly at the Ice Cream Factory in the shopping complex to the right. He could feel his back sticking to his seat, his hair slowly going limp. He listened to the engine's jerky idle, to the Tetris music coming from the gameboy, to Kim's voice. Ice cream sounded good right now. Ice cream was like the perfect word: creamy ice. Who could say no to that? Any ice, really. Stupid heat. The neon shook once, jerking Ron out of his reverie, and died. Biting back a good howl Ron turned the engine over. "Come on… come on…"

"Give it some gas."

"Put it in park."

"Want me to get out and push?"

Ron sighed. "Funny, Felix." He geared to park as horns started honking behind him.

"The light's green, asshole!"

Ron stuck his arm out the window and gave a thumbs up, tapping the gas and turning the engine. With a few puffs the engine came to life and Ron slammed it into gear, cursing his neon.

…

Ron drifted past the rows and rows of cars, biting his cheek. "How are all of the handicap spaces in use! I didn't think it was physically possible."

Ron passed JC Penny, Sears, Dick's, and Lazarus, constantly searching for a spot. "I can drop you guys off at the door and find a regular space, if you want."

Felix waved him off. "I don't mind wheeling."

"There's one."

Ron pulled into row H and put his blinker on, waiting for the red sports car coming toward them to pass. To everyone else's shock, and Ron's slight disappointment, the car swerved into the spot, instead. Ron bit his knuckle for a second to calm himself before flipping the car off. "You don't have a license to park there!"

The doors of the sports car opened and two large, muscle toned, arms that could snap a redwood like a twig, young men stepped out, laughing. Ron grabbed the door handle but Kim's hand on his shoulder stopped him.

"I can take them." He held back a growl.

"I know, but security cameras, Ron." Ron cursed bad drivers and mall parking.

…

It appeared that every car in the parking lot had four people in it: two teenagers, an old person with a hearing aid and a cane, and a crying child. Every clothing store blared a mix of funk, hip hop, and 80s, the sound escaping the shops' wide doors and converging in the packed hallway. A thousand different smells drifted from the food court near the center of the three story mega mall, and Ron was sure his head was going to implode. The general chatter was pierced every few seconds by the shrill, high-pitched scream of a child, and Ron cursed all children.

…

"Can I take your order, sir?"

Ron stared at the menu for a few more seconds, his teeth grinding. "Uh… yeah." He looked down at the cashier, a thin teenager with pale skin and a mop of blonde on his zit covered head. "Gimme a large French Vanilla cappathingy."

The pimple faced stick sighed and rolled his eyes, pointing vaguely at the left menu. "We don't have large, sir."

Ron blinked. "What? Why not? What happened to large?"

"McDonalds has large, sir, we're a café."

"No you're not. You're a coffee chain." Ron motioned at the food court behind him. "There's another Starbucks on the other side of the escalators, I can see it from here. What capitalist chain is too good for the basic system of measurement 'large?'"

The teen eyed the growing line broodingly. "Large isn't a measurement, sir."

"It's a representation of one, though. You can't measure ugly, but if I said 'wow, she's ugly,' you could probably pick out who I was talking about."

The teen looked back at Ron. "Sir, are you going to order anything?"

A few seconds of silence. "I did."

"Anything that's actually on the menu?" The teen made a sweeping gesture at the menu with his hand.

Ron debated jumping over the counter and giving the punk kid a good scare. "Fine, do you have different sizes?"

The teen was just as frustrated. "Like, duh. …Sir."

"Then give me the largest one!"

The teen hit a few buttons on the register with a thin, pale hand. "Would you like your cappuccino wet or dry, sir?"

Ron opened and closed his fists. "What the heck does that mean?"

The teen sighed and glanced at the clock. "Dry means that you want less milk, sir, wet means more."

"Dry, then."

Another few buttons. "What kind of milk do you want, sir?"

Clench, unclench, clench, unclench. A vein throbbed in Ron's forehead. "The heated kind that you make coffee with, now just pick a percent and make me my dry French Vanilla Cappuccino and put it in the largest size cup!"

"That'll be nine dollars and twenty three cents, sir."

Ron cursed the Starbucks menu.

…

Android k/18: Excellent point, I was not aware that Ron was Jewish and will correct the chapter immediately. Good eye and please point out any other errors you happen to find.

Digisim and Japanesejewel: Aw, thanks, that's what I was going for.


	10. I Used to Save the World

Author's Notes: I'll be the first to admit that this series has taken on mind of its own, although I guess that's what I get for writing during first period study hall instead of sleeping. Anyway, I have a bunch of chapters that I always debate posting, and each chapter goes through such rigorous testing as dice rolling, coin flipping, and the occasional game of rock, paper, scissors. Most chapters inevitably fail, but this little guy made it through, so I hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer: I don't own Ron or Indiana Jones

Chapter Quote: "He who is of a calm and happy nature will hardly feel the pressure of age, but to him who is of an opposite disposition youth and age are equally a burden." - Plato

…

Ron sat down on the worn metal bench in the middle of the small downtown park and crossed his leg. He set his black briefcase beside him and clicked it open, pulling out his paper he bought from Dave earlier that morning.

The headlines were a bit dull and depressing, the biggest being about the dangers of micorwaving soup, the smallest about the dangers of cold soup, and those in between having nothing to do with soup at all. According to the article, liquids sitting in the microwave do not always properly boil and have a tendency to explode when touched. If the explosion does not harm the hungry housewife, eating the soup too soon will. If at a burning temperature, soup can burn the throat and make it swell shut. Isn't that interesting?

Ron eyed his tomato soup container warily, sipping on his coffee. Something bumped against his leg gently and, naturally, he looked down. A blue ball with a worn cartoon character rocked back and forth, settling into a small chip in the sidewalk. Ron looked up and glanced around searching for the ball's owner, but all that he found were the old trees, patches of grass and dirt, and the steady flow of yellow taxis.

Cold soup, on the other hand, is just as dangerous. "Oh look, the articles are written by the same person, shocking." Cold soup is considered a European delicacy that was common during wars and economic depressions. The dangers lie in the temperature of the soup which, if too cold, can shock the system. In fact, all food should be eaten at room temperature and in small bites.

Ron tipped the paper forward, catching sight of a boy grabbing the blue ball. The boy looked up and froze, his blue eyes wide and scared. Ron set the paper down, folding it carefully. "Hi." The boy did not move. Time for a different approach. "How old are you?"

"Five."

"Five? That's a good age." Ron nodded to himself, sipping his coffee. "Half a decade."

The boy relaxed, standing fully. "My brother said I'm right slow fer five. Said he was a… a gen… genos at five."

"That right?"

"'Tis."

Ron twisted the lid off his soup. "Be careful with that ball." He plucked his spoon from the briefcase and grabbed a packet of crackers.

"Yes, sir." The boy brushed a lock of black out of his eyes, watching Ron poor the crumbled crackers into the soup.

Ron dipped his spoon in and mixed the soup up. "You alone?" The boy nodded. Ron took a sip of coffee. "No best friend?" The boy shook his head. "That's too bad."

They boy stuck out his hand, blue ball forgotten. "I'm Fintan."

Ron eyed the dirt covered hand before setting his coffee down and shaking it firmly. "I'm Ron."

Fintan's face lit up, a bit of pink filling his pale cheeks for a minute before disappearing again. "I'm Irish!" He pointed at Ron's freckles. "You are, too!"

Ron shrugged, flipping idly through the paper on the bench. "Aren't we all?"

"Ron's an English name, though. My mam said 'ain't notin' wrong wit being Irish, the Irish have been t'rough hell, Flint, ain't noting it it,' but nobody likes me 'cause I'm Irish." Ron pushed his briefcase to the edge of the bench and placed the paper inside before sliding over. This Fintan was not going to leave. "I like you, well enough."

Fintan scrambled up the bench, ball forgotten. "You can call me Flint. Everyone does."

"Why is that?"

Flint held up his hand, ticking off fingers. "'Cause one Fint ain't a right proper nickname, 'cause that's what daddy calls me, and 'cause I set our house on fire once wit a stone an' some sticks an' the devil's luck on me side."

Ron chuckled. "That's a fine story, Flint." He finished off his coffee and popped the top off of the cup. "You hungry?"

"Yessir. Mam says we all got two wooden legs."

Ron poured half of the soup into the coffee cup and handed the thermos to Flint. "I only have one spoon, would you like to-" Flint had instantly tipped the thermos back and was gulping down the tomato soup. "Never mind." Ron ate his soup slowly, his mind drifting to his childhood.

"You're a sad man, Ron. Is it 'cause yer Irish wit an English name?"

Ron looked over at his companion, eyebrows raised, to find Flint staring right back, blue eyes glistening with childlike curiosity. "Irish's got nothing to do with it."

"Is yer life a good waste a nothin'?"

Ron was taken aback, "what?"

"Me mam always says her life was a good waste a nothin' till she and dad and us all moved here."

"Ah, so you're Irish Irish." Ron nodded to himself, staring at the mix of tomato and cracker and coffee. "Thought so."

"Irish Irish Irish Irish, yep." Flint licked his lips. "Why sad?"

Ron shrugged, avoiding Flint's face. "Career change."

Flint nodded, though his eyes glistened with innocence. "This is my hero!" He pulled out a worn figure of Indiana Jones. "He saves the world!"

Ron chuckled and took the figure, inspecting the faded paint, belt, hat, and hand clutching a broken whip. "I used to save the world."

"You don't anymore?"

"Naw." Ron handed the figure back. "I grew up."

"My brother grew up, now he doesn't play anymore. I don't wanna grow up."

"Me either."

Flint held the action figure in both hands, eyes shining in admiration. "But you did?"

Ron nodded, setting his crossed leg down. "I did."

"Why?"

"I guess…" Ron sighed and shrugged. "Seemed like a good idea at the time. You'll understand when you're older, Flint."

Flint pouted. "Everyone says that. My mam and my dad and my big brother and my teacher and everyone. I can't wait till I'm good and old and ten and then I'll know everything!" Flint stretched his arms out, beaming. Slowly he dropped his arms and let his smile fade, looking up at Ron. "Right? 'Cause I don't get nothing, like why babies go to hell if they aren't baptized 'cause what's a baby ever done wrong and why they gotta die, anyway, and mam said 'stop askin' so many questions, you'll know when you're older' but I'm older now an' I still don't know."

Ron lay a hand on Flint's head, brushing his hair back before letting it drop again. "I don't know either, Flint." He sighed heavily. "But I don't think that babies go to hell… or purgatory."

"You don't?"

Ron shook his head. "I know your baby sister or brother's in heaven."

Flint smiled. "Good. I feel better now."

"Good."

Flint twisted his shoulders and wrapped his arms around Ron's bicep, hugging it tightly. Ron stiffened, surprised, but after a few seconds let his other hand pat the side of Flint's head gently. "I gotta go, Ron." Flint's voice was muffled as he buried his face into Ron's sleeve. "I'll see you again, right?"

Ron sighed and pulled Flint into his side for a quick hug. "I hope so, Flint."

Fintan grabbed the blue ball and dashed into the road, drifting between the taxis and disappearing. Ron picked up his paper and flipped to the comics.

…

BOC42: Glad I could make you smile

Imperial Navy Officer: I'm relieved that you didn't find Ron OOC, it's a hard thing for me to gauge, and that was a sick chapter… still can't believe I wrote it

Miss Piratess: Awesome way to handle the situation, there's nothing wrong with a good guilt trip every now and then. I tried to base Ron on when he got mad in the show, he's just so cute, so I'm glad you think I kept him in character. I find him a lot easier to write than Kim for whatever reasons, but he's still tricky. 


End file.
